I am an insomniac

Dear Stephenie Meyer,

I hate you. I loath you. You insult the whole field of literature merely by existing.

I hate you because I am an insomniac. My insomnia is in no way related to you, but our only connection (thus my resulting hatred for you) resulted from my inability to go to sleep. Therefore it is your fault I am awake.

I hate you because my sweet, thoughtful grandmother purchased ALL of your books, and for Christmas gave them to me.

I hate you because I have spent nearly seven consecutive hours reading said books, and have consequentially missed two meals and an important phone call.

I hate you because reading your books has left me with the sensation of eating a whole pie, in one sitting, by myself. And resulting from this I have an insuperable urge to vomit. And shower.

I hate you because you spell your name with an "e" instead of an "a".

I hate you because you have produced four of the most poorly written, anti-feminist, and abusive relationship enabling books of the century, possibly of all time.

And you win the award for most unnecessary and excessive use of adjectives of all time (page 71, paper back edition). And on several accounts, you failed to identify the pronoun for about 3 1/2 pages.

I hate you because I could eat alphabet soup and shit out a better book than the ones you have produced.

For all of these reasons I hate you, but the biggest reason I harbor such unresolvable ill-will towards you, Stephenie Meyer, is because your literary vomit has awarded you roughly millions of dollars, and for all my anti-materialistic sentiment, I am really fucking broke.

... the story of my life ladies and gentlemen

My penny pinching Jew of a mother explains to me in increasingly loud and irritated tones that by not raising the thermostat above 67 degrees we are saving incalculable amounts of money.

This is of little relief to my freezing and currently feeling-less phalanges.
As a direct result of this I sulk to the basement, dig around in a sawdust covered, black mould filled crawlspace and dig up an electric area heater.

I crank it to high and go to sleep.
In an ironic twist of events, I wake up covered in about four quarts of my own sweat and the thermostat now tells me that it is eighty degrees in my room.

I'm going to write the makers of this area heater a strongly worded letter of gratitude and praise for engineering such a superb piece of machinery.